


Believe

by IHaveNeverBeenWise



Series: It's Easier to Forget [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, M/M, Reincarnation, Reincarnation AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-23
Updated: 2013-03-23
Packaged: 2017-12-06 05:52:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/732162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IHaveNeverBeenWise/pseuds/IHaveNeverBeenWise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts in the park.</p>
<p>Signs have been going up all week, posters pinned to the campus bulletin boards, flyers stapled to telephone poles, word spread in hushed, excited tones. God knows what it is the students are protesting – the man in the back certainly doesn’t  High rates for college and student loans? Unjust labor laws? Wars in other countries? It doesn’t matter, though. There’s only so much a group of students can do; petitions only do so much, and rousing speeches usually end in police brutality. The man pulls his cap over his eyes to shade them from the noon sun, already slightly drunk. He’s only here because he has nothing better to do, and it might prove to be interesting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Believe

It starts in the park.

Signs have been going up all week, posters pinned to the campus bulletin boards, flyers stapled to telephone poles, word spread in hushed, excited tones. God knows what it is the students are protesting – the man in the back certainly doesn’t High rates for college and student loans? Unjust labor laws? Wars in other countries? It doesn’t matter, though. There’s only so much a group of students can do; petitions only do so much, and rousing speeches usually end in police brutality. The man pulls his cap over his eyes to shade them from the noon sun, already slightly drunk. He’s only here because he has nothing better to do, and it might prove to be interesting.

The crowd is cheering, muttering among itself, opinions exchanged like bullets. They’re holding hand-made signs with bad puns or thoughtful slogans, T shirts emblazoned with fists and peace signs and bold print that reads Act up! or Fight back! They look like every other group of students before them, and they’ll probably do the same amount of good – little, if any. The man in the back rubs the rough stubble on his chin and stretches, leaning back against a tree and fishing in his pocket for a cigarette

The people fall silent as a boy climbs behind a raised podium – a box on the back of a pick-up truck. A man, really, but he looks younger, lit from the inside with revolutionary fervor. He nods at the people and begins to speak, eloquently crafting his words, lowering and raising his voice to engage his audience, eyes scanning the crowd to gauge reactions and respond accordingly. He has the practiced air of a regular public speaker, but things never really get easier when it comes to talking in front of large groups. It’s difficult, tailoring a speech to appeal the masses, and the results fall on his shoulders. It’s worth it, though – making a difference. Looking at the faces in the crows, he sees them all; a girl with dreadlocks listening in rapt attention, an androgynous individual brandishing a sign, two women – girlfriends – hollering their approval, a man in the back smoking and looking completely disinterested and – oh.

His gut clenches uncomfortably, and his gestures slow for a moment – it feels like there’s something nagging at the back of his mind, something important, something he forgot – but there’s no time to dwell on it. He shakes it off, pushing the thought out of his head, and continues with his speech. But he can’t tear his eyes away from the man – slightly stained clothes, knotted dark hair, a baggy jacket in olive green, unzipped, sallow skin – and Enjolras can’t seem to shake the feeling that this man is important.

And the man looks up. Their eyes meet, just for a second, before the man breaks eye contact to take a drag from his cigarette, but it’s enough. Something heavy settles in Enjolras’ chest, and it constricts painfully. He can taste blood and gunpowder on his tongue, he can feel the bullets as the punch through him, the blood spilling down his skin. He can smell the smoke and wine and pine wood of the Musain, hears the calls and laughter and cries echoing in his ears. It’s all flooding back, too much, too fast, flares and burst of memories and people and places. Righteous indignation on behalf of the lower people oppressed by the king, grief at the death on the barricade, a rapid kaleidoscope of raw emotion that leaves him simultaneously empty and full, nauseous and reeling.

He is left gasping, and when he comes back to himself, he realizes that his audience is looking at him expectantly – he has fallen silent. But he has nothing to say – the words of his rousing speech no longer seem as important as they once were – the revelation of life (and if he is alive, then so must be the others) has shocked him beyond words. But he collects himself and continues, ignoring the erratic beating of his heart and fumbling through the closing. He steps down hurriedly, ignoring the odd looks his peers give him, climbs down from the truck and runs.

He stumbles away from the crowd, skirting around the edges and ignoring the people trying to get his attention – another student will take his place on the stand and recapture their attention. He couldn’t tell you why this is so important to him – important enough to abandon the protest – from his memories, he usually didn’t get along with the man (Grantaire, his name is Grantaire) , but it is. There was so much unsaid between them – apologies, thanks, explanations. It’s still vivid in his mind: a small smile, hand gripping hand, a broken carbine clutched in his fist. He pushes through the last of the throng and frantically scans the crowd for the man.

Grantaire is ambling away from the park, back turned on the protest. Enjolras can barely make him out, swallowed by the bustle of the city and his heart leaps into his throat because he can’t lose him, not again, not his only link to the past. He’s running now, heedless of the cyclists and pedestrians, scrambling after Grantaire. Panting, he reaches out and snags Grantaire’s sleeve, pulling the man around to face him. There’s no electric spark in the touch; it doesn’t feel like he thought it might, and for a moment, he dreads that it might be nothing more than a fleeting fancy. But Grantaire turns around, and he hasn’t changed at all – he still looks half-drunk, and there’s still a bitter look haunting his eyes. 'Do you permit it?' echoes in his head, 'Two at one shot,' and Enjolras finds him grinning despite it.

“Grantaire,” he breathes. “It is so good to see you, I-“ he stops suddenly, looking at Grantaires face. The expression that meets him is confused; there is no comprehension there. “Grantaire?”

Grantaire looks at him, eyes narrowed and head cocked slightly, before roughly pulling his arm out of Enjolras’ grasp. “Look man, do I know you? I’m not opposed to pretty blondes, but…”

And Enjolras feels lost. He’d never considered that Grantaire wouldn’t remember, and what was there to say? 'We died together, France, early 1830’s - you remember it? You, shot down for a revolution you did not believe in?'

“You’re the guy from the protest though, yeah? You’re wasting your time, if you’re trying to recruit me. I don’t want any part of it – it’s not like you’re going anywhere with it.”

No, he hasn’t changed at all.

“My name is Enjolras,” he responds, but Grantaire shows no signs of recognition at the name. It hurts more than it rationally should, like a part of him is just within his reach but being torn farther out of him with each passing second. “Grantaire, please. Just remember.” The plea is half-angry, half-wild.

Grantaire only arches an eyebrow. “Remember what? Look, I’ve never seen you before. I’d remember a face like that if I took it home with me.”

Enjolras flushes at the comment. “No, we were…friends.” Had they, though? Been friends? Comrades? Acquaintances? It doesn’t matter now, he supposes. Whatever it was between them, this is what matters. Now.

“Friends?” There’s a mocking lilt to the man’s voice.

“In Paris.”

This draws an outright laugh from him, and Enjolras clenches his fists. “Oh man, that’s a good one. You have got to be high, and I want some of what it is you’ve got!” And still chuckling, he turns to leave. Enjolras can feel the situation slipping away, like a dream through cupped fingers.

Desperately, he calls after the retreating man, “But I know your name!” It’s a flimsy excuse, and he knows it.

Grantaire stops mid-step and turns around. “Yeah. You do. So what? Plenty of people know my name.”

Enjolras thinks over his words carefully. “What do you think of reincarnation?”

Grantaire shrugged, a wry smile still lingering on his lips. “I don’t believe in it. I don’t believe in anything.”

“You believe in me.” The words fall from his mouth before he can stop them, echoing the long-ago conversation. Maybe he’d hoped they would trigger the memories. Maybe he’d hoped Grantaire would remember, or laugh and embrace him as an old friend, or show some sign, any sign, that he knew him. Maybe he’d hoped a lot of things. 

But eventually, slowly, Grantaire shakes his head. “No,” he says, and there is a mournful quality to his voice. “I don’t think I do.”

This time, when he leaves, Enjolras doesn’t call him back.

**Author's Note:**

> A sequel to this has been requested; it's in the works right now.


End file.
